Trigger warnings: protests, violence
On the morning of June 9, I boarded a direct flight from Hong Kong to Washington, D.C. to begin a summer of journalism. When I turned my phone off ‘airplane mode’ sixteen hours later, I found my home a changed place.
That same day one million people took to the streets. A week later, this figure doubled to two. The marches were peaceful at first, but when protesters demanded the protection of the freedoms already promised by our Basic Law constitution fell on deaf ears, the effectiveness of nonviolent protest was called into question. Set aflame by the proposition of an extradition bill — which would have laid the groundwork for the transfer of fugitives across the border to mainland China – Hong Kong’s political upheaval continues to burn despite the shelving of the legislation.
For six months now, I’ve been gripped by the overwhelming fear that the city I was born in, the streets I grew up on, are irreparably gone. Violence aside, the home that is filling their place is fundamentally different to the one that raised me. After a summer of writing non-stop about Hong Kong, I somehow find myself no longer able to read the news, let alone articulate the weight in my chest and confusion in my head with coherency. Each time I am forced to confront the upheaval back home, the question that rattles my insides seems to prove a little bit truer —
Have I already said goodbye to Hong Kong?
—
I was born on February 12th, 1998 in Ma On Shan’s Prince of Wales Hospital, a quick car ride from my airy wood-paneled home. Our building was tall, a white-tiled structure that sat in the middle of a hilly college campus. My bedroom looked out over an explosion of greenery, and on the other side, the blue of the South China Sea sparkled through the windows. On hot summer nights, the chirping of cicadas downstairs would punctuate the hum of our fans, but otherwise, my first home was serene.
To get there, you turned off Tai Po Road and pass through the tall white gates of the Chinese University of Hong Kong — where my parents first met, and where my dad taught for twenty-four years. Once you’re through, you keep turning left, my mother always reminded me. It was easy, and I was assured in knowing I could never really get lost.
When I was small, that campus was my playground, I knew every block and shortcut like the back of my hand. On warm summer nights, I’d swim laps in the 50 metre pool. Dragonflies would kiss the water next to me, dancing with the strokes of my arms. I’d get egg sandwiches and milk tea from the student cafeteria nearby, and steaming plates cheungfun from the concession stand above the pool.
But on November 12th, 2019, the austerity of this campus was broken by a violence unthinkable until that moment. The tree-lined streets of my childhood home became the latest frontline in Hong Kong’s fight for democracy and freedom. I was in class when the first images of fire, smoke and teargas emerged, dominating the new thread #CUHKMassacre on Twitter. Riot police were laying siege to my childhood home, with a group of twenty-somethings valiantly standing in the line of fire.
Now the gates are stained, and when you turn left to get to my home, a shadow of violence follows you all the way.
—
Subway stations are colour coded back home, each district with its own unique hue. Red was where I lived, where I got on and off the train every day to commute to school. It was where I cried when I learned of my acceptance to Yale. Light blue is where my dad’s favourite restaurant is, nestled in a glossy mall between skyscrapers in Hong Kong’s financial district. And green was where my friends and I made the most memories, hanging out after school and long into the night on weekends, before college applications and exams caught up with us.
When I first saw the video of riot police shoving protesters down a moving escalator, I was filled with a burning rage. Then my eyes focussed on the walls behind the commotion — red like the colour of crayons, and poppies, and blood.
—
My parents always warned that we from a precarious place. I’ve always understood that one day — somewhere so far in the future that I didn’t have to think about it — Hong Kong would be swallowed into mainland China.
Still, I’ve always wanted to move back home after growing up. I’d spend a few years in New York or London or Berlin, but I’d make my way back to Asia before my thirties rolled around. It’s where I wanted to raise my kids, so they’d grow up calling my friends “auntie” and “uncle” and know where to get the best curry fish balls and crispy gai daan tsai. I wanted them to love Hong Kong as I love Hong Kong, so that we could lose it together when the day inevitably came.
—
Watching my home fall apart from 13,000 miles away is a little like learning how to walk again. But this time without the assurance of knowing someone is there to catch me when I fall.
It’s hard to focus when it feels like everything that makes me me is slipping through my fingers, when every memory I have of growing up is somehow tainted by something sinister. I try my best to bury myself in school, in my friends, to dedicate my totality of energy to this campus. We all are.
But a fellow Hongkonger described this impossible dance perfectly: “You wake up, read the news and cry. Then you get up, go to class, smile, talk to your friends, smile, then do your homework. And at night, when the darkness settles here but the skies are bright back home, you lie down, read the news, and cry again.”
It’s an impossible task.
By Hana Davis.
